Rune Alignment

Chapter 56.

Bobby slipped his right arm through his jacket sleeve and hiked the left side up over his left shoulder. He crossed the lobby and pushed open one of the glass doors. The smell of cigarette smoke assaulted his nose. God, it was good. He saw several people off to the right, puffing away, ostracized from the rest of humanity. He slowed, thought and then thought, what the hell.

"Say, do you have an extra?" he asked an older man.

Without a word, the man pulled the pack from his shirt pocket and shook a cigarette to the top. Bobby took it with, "Thanks." The old man reached into his pocket and pulled a lighter, flicked it and touched the end of Bobby's cigarette. Bobby drew it deeply. Jesus Christ is that good, he thought. He held it and then let it go slowly.

The old man watched him. "How long ago did you quit?" he asked.

Bobby looked at the man, smiled slightly and said, "About seven years ago."

The man retrieved his pack and shook out a few more, "Here. Take a few."

Bobby looked at the pack and then at the man. He warred with himself and then took only one. "Thanks."

"Here, take this, too. I've got another."

Bobby took the lighter, slipped it in his pocket and said, "Thanks again." The old man nodded and Bobby walked to his car.

"I got a fax back from Interpol saying Clive Donohue is not in their system," Bishop told the other two. "Hey, look who's here."

Everyone turned to see Bobby coming from the elevators. He looked terrible, his face was dark, he had bags under his eyes, they could see he was pissed. No one said anything to him. Bobby glanced at the group standing at Eames' desk, shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto the coat tree. He pulled out his chair and sat.

He closed his eyes and heard his heart pound in his ears and felt it throb behind his eyes. His left hand was on fire. His gut churned molten acids. "What did you find in Elliott's apartment?" he asked with eyes still closed, right thumb and fingers covering them.

The three looked at him. Finally, Bishop said, "Bobby are you all right?"

Without warning, he shot up, slammed his right hand on his desk and shouted, "What the fuck did you find in his goddamn apartment?" Each of them took a step back. Deakins was out his door in a New York minute.

"Goren!" he called, "In my office now!"

Bobby closed his eyes again and ran his right hand down the back of his head. He stood a moment then turned and strode to the boss's door. Deakins stood outside, let Bobby pass and then followed him, pulling shut the door.

Bobby sprawled in one of the chairs. Deakins looked at his best detective. They were silent a moment. Then Deakins said, "You are on administrative leave as of six o'clock this evening." Bobby didn't respond.

"Did you hear me, detective?" Bobby didn't respond. "Answer me!"

Bobby opened his eyes, looked up at his boss, wiped his hand across his face, stood and walked out of the office.

Deakins closed his eyes and shook his head. It's no use, he said to himself.

"He is wound tighter than a spring," Bishop said.

"The guy's going to have a nervous breakdown," Sledge observed.

Eames thought, I did this to him.

"He needs to –," Bishop stopped as Bobby approached.

He sat at his desk and the others moved to leave. "Wait, wait," he said and they stopped and turned. "I, uhm, I . . . oh," he closed his eyes, squeezed them tight and slightly moved his head to the right and back. "Any body got any aspirin?"

Eames said, "I do. Right here." She pulled out her top desk drawer and took out a bottle of extra-strength pain reliever and handed the bottle across the desk. He reached, and their fingers touched. Eames' eyes shot up at his and he looked back. "Thanks," he said.

Bishop returned with a bottle of water from the coffee room. "Here take them with this," she said, unscrewing the lid and handing it out to him. Bobby struggled with the pill bottle cap and Sledge took it from him, opened it and handed it back. They watched as he shook out four capsules onto the desk top.

"That's a lot of –," Bishop started then stopped as Bobby shot her a look. She put up two hands and shook her head.

He swallowed the pills and drained the bottle. Jesus, his stomach. "What's Elliott's address?" He asked.

"The warrant to search Donohue's motel room arrived this afternoon. Why don't we check out his place and then go to Elliott's apartment?" suggested Sledge.

Bobby thought, yeah, then I can stop at Gleason's apartment. "Sounds good to me. Let's go," he replied. "Bishop, we'll take my car; you drive." He stood, stopped, closed his eyes and raised his right hand part way to his head. The room tilted, he was going to be sick. "Give me . . . ," he didn't finish and dashed off to the men's room.

"What's wrong with him?" Eames asked, looking at the other two.

"He's exhausted, he probably didn't sleep last night. Probably hasn't eaten since last night. Probably dehydrated, you saw him chug that water. Probably out of his mind with worry," Sledge said to her.

The three stood silently and then dispersed.

Bobby yanked open a stall door and heaved into the toilet. Again. He shut the stall door behind him, flushed, and stood leaning on the divider. His head was going to split wide open. He heaved up again. Oh, God. He drew ragged breaths. One more heave and he threw up the last of any scrap he had left and then flushed. He waited a few minutes, leaning with his back against the stall door, head in his right hand. He wasn't sure he could trust his legs; they quivered as he stood there. He felt another heave rising and fought it down, breathing in through his nose and out from his mouth. No good, one more gag and toss and he actually thought he was going to pass out. He fell back against the door, he felt hot, sweaty. Jesus, something's wrong with me, he thought. He flushed again, turned and left the stall. Bobby staggered to a sink and leaned on it with his right hand. He was gasping.

"You ok, man?" Sledge asked as he moved to Bobby's side, actually concerned.

Bobby couldn't even look.

"Turn on the water, will you?" Bobby whispered.

Sledge turned on the cold tap and pulled paper towels from the dispenser. He turned on the water in the next sink and wet the mass, squeezing the paper a little and held the wad on the back of Bobby's neck. Sledge put a hand on Bobby's right bicep and said, "You're not good, man. We need to get you to hospital."

Bobby stood upright, "No, no." He forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply. "I'm good. Just give me a few minutes, ok?" He glanced over at Sledge. They looked at each other for a half second and Sledge bent to pick up the cool wad of paper towels that had fallen when Bobby stood up.

Sledge pulled more towels, wet them and handed them to Bobby. "I'll wait with you."

Bobby nodded wiped his face, rewet the paper, and wiped again. He scooped water in his right hand, sucked it, swished and spit. He repeated two more times.

He stood up and said, "Let's go."

The two women watched the two men walk back from the men's room. Neither knew what to say. Bobby didn't look at anyone. "Can I have a couple more of those aspirin?" he asked looking at the floor.

Eames, stepped back to her desk, opened the drawer, retrieved the bottle, opened it and shook two pills into her hand. She put out her hand and Bobby did the same, she dropped the pills into his palm. "Two more," he said. She shook two more into his palm. Bishop had gotten four bottles of water from the coffee room; she opened one and handed it to him. Again, he chugged the water, flooding the pills down his throat.

He glanced at his colleagues, "Ready?"

They were silent in the elevator. In the deck, Eames and Sledge went to his car and Bishop followed Bobby to his. He handed her his keys and went around to the passenger side. Gleason's bag was on the seat, the white plastic drawstring bag was on the floor. He swung both over the seat into the back. Bishop moved the driver's seat forward nearly a foot and adjusted the wheel and mirrors. They rode in silence.

"I think he may have food poisoning," Sledge said to Eames.

She turned and looked at him. "Why? What makes you think so?"

"The volume he threw up, his dehydration. I'll bet. It just has to run its course. He'll be ok. We have to make sure he doesn't become totally dehydrated."

They rode silently for a few minutes. Then, softly, he said, "Alex, we need to talk about how you feel about him. How you feel about . . . me."

Eames looked out the passenger window. She sighed. And said nothing.